Let The Sky Fall
by endlessly wandering
Summary: That's the thing about this world we live in: it's full of shitty people, shitty towns, and very shitty circumstances.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a different one, sorta out of my comfort zone. But it'll be fun, I hope! Thanks for reading!_

 **LET THE SKY FALL**

 _PART I_

There are things he doesn't like talking about.

What happened to him is the biggest one. The bruises and cuts and scars tell the story, but he won't open his mouth to speak of any of it.

Where he was is the second biggest. All he mutters is that he was in a war, that he was in gunfire all day long.

How he's feeling is the worst one of all. That's the one that surpasses the stories, the purple marked flesh, the dark circles under his eyes. That's the one everyone tries to figure out and no one can find an answer to.

I think it's the one that's broken him. The matter of whether he's insane or not is a constant weight on his mind, and it'll only hurt him or save him when he finds an answer.

* * *

Like most people, I've never liked war. I've always thought it was a giant pit of restlessness––of soldiers killing just so they can get home.

I don't talk about it much. People don't like hearing what you do and you don't like; they only care about themselves, about their likes and dislikes. That's the thing about this world we live in: it's full of shitty people, shitty towns, and very shitty circumstances.

War is probably the shittiest circumstance of them all, constantly having a target on your back. Couldn't imagine the pain those people go through, but really, they did it to themselves. They signed up––or had to by the even shittier government––and are now cooped in their houses takin' pills just to feel okay.

Don't get me wrong; I get takin' pills. I get wanting to feel numb for a while. But this damn society has better things to do than to sit and watch people die, watch the death count rise and get anxious because they may or may not hear a family member's name come from a newscaster's mouth.

Soda asked me once if I believed in God. I told him straight up:

"There ain't no God to believe in."

He looked at me like I was nuts. They always look at you like that––eyes wide, mouth sorta hanging open, their hands wringing together like they ain't got anything better to do.

"Don't you think about that shit, Steve? That there's a higher power and all that?"

It was my turn to look at him like he was nuts. "Hell no. There ain't no shit to think about; ain't no higher power to wonder about. I have my own high power: it's called booze."

Soda smirked that damn smirk of his, but his eyes were sad. "I'm sorry you went to 'Nam over me, man."

"Ain't no shit to think about, Soda."

I shrugged and blew some smoke out into the night, watching it color the blackened sky with a streak of gray.


	2. Chapter 2

_So sorry for the wait! I had my senior project presentation on the 24th and I cannot tell you how happy I am that it's over. I've stressed about it for the entire month of April!_

 **LET THE SKY FALL**

 _PART II_

When you're in a war, it's like you're floating.

You can see, hear, and touch everything around you. Bullets hit your body, the blast sharp enough to send you to the ground. You see the others as together, one by one, they fall at the mercy of your enemy. You hear their cries of anguish, of anger, of pain, and you're wanting to go home just as badly as they do. You can touch your wounds, feel the scars on your skin like they've been there your entire life, and yet...

...at the same time, you can't do anything.

You can't scream; they'll hear you and come put a bullet in your head. You can't hear much; your ears feel clogged, like when you have a horrible cold. You can't see if anyone is coming to your aid; your head feels full of mush and everything moves in slow motion.

All you can do is lie there, on that dead, red grass, and pray.

* * *

And when you do come home, a shit ton of chaos greets you.

I remember coming home. I remember the looks they gave us. Some were of pity. Most were of anger. Some, even few, were terrified.

I didn't think about it then, but they had a right to be terrified of us. They knew what we'd gone through, and yet they'd no idea. They didn't know any better; fear is a natural reaction to a disaster.

Just didn't think we would be the target of all of that pent-up rage, that pity, that fear.

Soda came and picked me up from the airport that day. He'd finally gotten his license and was acting all hotshot, and I was grateful for him. I've always been grateful for Soda, but that day the gratefulness was just a little bit more than usual.

He was silent the entire way back to his house. I watched him the whole time, and he watched me, and together, we sat in Darry's beat up old truck and just drove, trying to forget about what just happened to the world.


End file.
